


Growing Up Isn't Growing Old

by shealynn88



Series: Old Before Their Time [1]
Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, UST, endgame tyra/billy, s1e17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-11
Updated: 2007-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 07:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20206105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88
Summary: Tyra has to come to Tim's rescue again, and she's not happy about it.Written in 2007, moving some work over to ao3





	Growing Up Isn't Growing Old

Tyra pounds on the door furiously. "Billy? Billy you get out here this second!"

When he finally answers, his expression goes from confused to exasperated. "Tyra, I already told you—"

"You prefer your brother in a body-bag? Someone's gotta take care of him, Billy, so grow the hell up! He's down at the bar gettin' the crap beat out of him. You gonna help me, or do I have to break it up with my good looks?"

Now he looks annoyed. "Jesus Christ. Just give me a second." He looks back into the house, and his girlfriend of the moment is yelling at him to close the door. He actually starts back inside before Tyra rips the screen door out of his hands.

"No, Billy. We are leaving _right now!_" 

He takes one close look at her and she can see him trying to decide. "Fine," she says shortly. "I'll do it myself." She stalks back toward the truck.

She'll run the barflies over with the damn pickup if she has to. And then she'll run Tim over, for making her worry so damn much. She's too young for this shit. Her mother, her ex—apparently, someone appointed her caretaker when she wasn't looking.

"Tyra! Jesus, girl! Wait up!" Billy runs up behind her and she ignores him as he scrambles into the passenger seat.

The tires screech on the pavement as she peels out. "Fucking Tim," she finally mutters under her breath.

"What the hell is he doing out there?" Billy asks. He sounds more confused than annoyed, now, and Tyra sighs. Apparently 'clueless' runs in the family.

"Hell if I know. Theresa called me and said he was looking for trouble. Considering that your father's a dickhead and got Tim drinking again, I'm thinking it's probably related. What do you think, Sherlock?"

Billy laughs, and for a second all she wants in the world is to pull the truck over and beat the hell out of him. 

This is not her job. When she'd started making out with Tim behind the bleachers she'd been looking for a good time, not a lifetime of Riggins drama.

She settles for punching Billy in the arm. "Shut the hell up."

They arrive just in time to see Tim hit the pavement. Twice. And then Billy's out of the truck and Tyra remembers why she went to get him in the first place. He's an ass—that runs in the family, too—but he loves his brother, and he's a hell of a lot more intimidating than she is. 

They help Tim to the truck after the barflies back off, and Tyra tries not to yell. Because if she starts yelling, she'll start crying and then her mascara'll run, and that'll just piss her off worse. 

Tim's not worth it, anyhow.

Billy climbs in her side because Tim keeps flopping over. He's conscious, barely, and she's trying to be mad about him getting blood all over her seat and her dashboard. 

Being mad is so much easier than being scared.

"Christ, Timmy, why didn't you just come talk to me?" Billy's whispering in a broken voice as he climbs over the gear-shaft, and Tyra just barely keeps herself from jibing at his sudden concern. Sure, _afterwards_ he's sorry.

The drive back to the house is long and full of whispering. She can't make out the words but she hears anger and concern in Billy's voice.

Tim is silent, as usual. Apparently getting the hell beat out of him was all he wanted out of the evening. 

Billy's hip is digging into hers and she smacks his knee extra hard with the gear-shaft as she shifts into fourth and thinks how funny it is that Tim always manages to get what he wants. 

He's got her feeling guilty, and she knows that would make him proud. Might be half of why he did it in the first place. 

If she'd talked to him when he'd asked, he wouldn't have gone and gotten himself pummeled. No, instead he'd have looked at her with those pretty eyes and used that sweet smile of his to get her alone. And then he'd have softened her up with some sob story and they'd have screwed in the back room and she'd feel like a whore, but his face wouldn't be split open like a damn melon. 

She hates him for making her feel guilty and she hates him for not waiting for her shift to end, and she hates him for what might have happened if it hadn't been the dinner rush. God, she just hates it all, and this is the last time. The last time she's going to save his ass.

She slams the gear-shaft into Billy's knee again and he swears. "Jesus, Tyra, what the hell?"

"Well, get your damn knee out of the way!"

She stops at the curb and she has no plans to get out, but when Tim gets out and falls to his knees, she finds herself running around the truck in spite of herself. She glares at Billy as she puts Tim's arm around her shoulder, and they get him inside together.

She lets Billy take Tim once they're in the house. She can hear them swearing at each other in the bedroom, and she grabs a beer out of the fridge and pops it open on the chipped countertop.

Three long swallows later and she feels a lot less like breaking things.

Billy comes out of the room looking tired, and he grabs a beer from the fridge before he takes a seat next to her. "Hey," he finally says quietly. He opens the beer with a church-key. "Thanks for your help."

She raises her beer and watches him suspiciously. The Riggins boys don't say 'thanks.' She waits for a 'but' or a snide remark. Billy's usually good for one or the other.

"You sure you should be drinkin' that? I was under the impression I was supposed to do something about the underage drinkin' going on, here."

Her mouth gapes in surprise. He's got balls, throwing that in her face after what just happened. "Oh, yeah? Let's see you come take it."

He laughs softly. "I think I've had enough fighting for one night, thanks. Tim just finished smacking me in the mouth." He touches his lip and she can see that it's already swelling.

She leans forward to get a closer look, and she can tell it's going to be pretty in the morning. She shrugs and takes another swig of beer. "Serves you right, you know."

He looks like he's going to protest, and then he slumps forward and takes another drink. "Yeah. I know. But, what the hell am I supposed to do? Tim's not easy to talk down, you know," he says, as if it's an excuse.

She snorts. "You're tellin' me?" She shakes her head. "You're all he's got, Billy, and somebody's gotta step it up." She glances at the bedroom and sighs. "I'm guessin' it's not gonna be him."

Billy finishes his beer with a sigh. "Not likely."

She laughs bitterly. "Not in this lifetime."

Billy tips his head, and he's looking at her like he's never quite seen her before. She feels the smile fade from her face, even as she tries to keep it up like armor. 

"Tyra Collette," he says softly. He reaches out and grabs a strand of hair that's fallen into her face. He winds it back behind her ear and his gaze is intense. She's got jitters in her stomach, and she tells herself it's leftover adrenaline from the fight. "He's real lucky to have you." 

She knows it's time for her to leave, but she doesn't move as his fingers trace the line of her cheekbone and his palm settles against her cheek. He's examining her face like he wants to kiss her, and he's got to be crazy if he thinks she'd ever go for another Riggins. Ever.

The moment stretches out and finally his hand slides away and he looks to the side in embarrassment. "Well," he says, getting up and pointedly not looking at her. "It's getting late. I do appreciate the help, tonight." 

She gets up slowly, leaving her beer bottle on the counter. "Yeah," she says, watching him put the bottles in the sink. 

She lets herself out.

Her hands shake a bit on the wheel as she pulls away from the curb. Her cheeks feel warm and she tells herself it was the beer, but she knows it's not true. One beer hasn't given her a buzz since the fifth grade.

No, she has a nagging feeling that this buzz won't be fixed by a good night's sleep, and she just _knows_ that the hangover is going to be pure hell.

Damn those Riggins boys, anyway.


End file.
